


where it's warm

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Humor, in which a cartoon man gets yelled at, it's borderline crack tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saturdays are great. But they also kind of suck because the best thing on television is Bob the Builder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where it's warm

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted to write about raven and wick yelling at bob the builder i’m so sorry
> 
> thanks to [anddirtyrain](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/anddirtyrain/pseuds/anddirtyrain) for editing and generally being my raven/wick liege lord
> 
> EDIT: i actually really dislike raven/wick now and i only wrote this before i realized wick was gross!! i didnt want to delete it for Reasons, but there it is.

It’s warm as she opens her eyes. She can feel the faint heat on her face, on her back. She thinks it’s the sun at first, the light that swathes the room in yellow definitely suggests as much. But that’s not what’s keeping her warm. It’s his body, his arm pulling her tight to him, his cheek on her forehead, his legs tangled over hers. She grins sluggishly and snuggles deeper into his side. She loves mornings, especially loves morning with him.

He nudges her back. “Happy Saturday,” he breathes against her ear.

“I thought you were asleep,” she says in surprise, rolling away from him.

“Nah. I get up _extra_ early just to watch you sleep. You know, you talk when you’re dreaming. And your eyelids flutter. It’s pretty cute. Your nose does this sniffling thing, like a baby rabbit.”

She shakes her head and wrestles the blankets from him. They always manage to get wrapped up under his body, something he insists isn’t his fault. (It is. She knows when he’s lying). “You’re creepy.”

“Ah yes, one of my core character traits.”

“Very endearing.”

“Mmm,” he says, and steals the blankets back from her. She gasps as the cold morning air hits her legs, and gives him a reproachful glare.

“Hey,” she warns, grappling for them. “I’ll fight you.”

He gives her a half smile, and it—in addition to his tousled hair and prickly cheeks—makes him look like some kind of badass superhero who woke up late to save the world. “I just love it when you threaten to beat me up.”

“You think I’m kidding, but I’ll go all out for these damn blankets. No more cold nights by the time I’m finished with you.” She narrows her eyes at him, fists still tugging at the hem of the fleece.

He relents with a heavy sigh after a fierce staring war (which Raven totally won, but who’s counting), tucking the edge of the blanket under her shoulders. (For all his joking, he hates when she’s cold.) 

“I’ve got a better idea,” he says, and puts an arm around her. “Let’s just stay in bed the whole day. Just lay here, where it’s warm. We’ve got food, we’ve got each other”—Raven makes a face, which Wick graciously returns—“and most importantly, we’ve got TV.”

“And here I was thinking ‘each other’ was the most important thing.”

“Nah, Ray, _TV_. _TV_ is definitely the most important thing.” He picks up the remote, pressing the power button impatiently. Their TV takes a while to turn on. The cons of buying a cheap old thing from Goodwill. But Raven liked to fix things, liked a challenge, and Wick had bought it for her as a birthday present. He’d carried the clunky box home and offered it to her with a self-pleased look on his face, and she’d wasted no time in disappearing with it into the garage. But that was months ago, and it looked like it could use another facelift.

“Gotta fix that,” she mutters as the screen crackles through static to reveal a badly made children’s cartoon.

“Another day,” he tells her. “Today is TV day.”

“Today is Saturday.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“We’re usually pro _duct_ ive on Saturdays.”

Wick grins. “Yeah, and this is our day off.”

She looks like she might argue, her mouth is open and her eyebrows are pulled together slightly. She doesn’t, though, because she likes mornings with him, likes the warmth of his body next to hers, likes the smell of his hair (usually unwashed, the lazy bastard), likes his ever-present shoulder. She likes it better than she likes machines, better than she likes her box of tools and the grittiness of grease on her hands. So she allows herself to be tugged into the TV show and leans her head on his shoulder. She can hear the crinkling of a smile on his lips and doesn’t need to look to see it.

Her eyes settle on whatever’s happening on-screen. Her initial judgement wasn’t far off from the truth: It’s a cartoon for preschoolers that would probably make Pixar cry.

“Are we—are we watching _Bob the Builder_?” she asks when a plump British man in a hardhat waddles into the picture.

Wick looks at her quickly, as if to reassure her that he doesn’t actually like subpar children’s programs. “That’s what was on when I turned on the TV. We can watch something else if you want.” He flips through the channels, their sleepy machine responding slowly.

To no one’s surprise, there’s nothing on except golf, _SVU_ (it’d be on during the fucking zombie apocalypse), mediocre shows from the 90s that somehow made syndication, and more children’s programs.

“ _Bob the Builder_ , I guess,” says Raven. She takes the remote from Wick, much to his unease. (He likes to keep control of the remote. It holds all the power in the house. Also _Scandal_ is on at the same time as _American Pickers_ and he’ll be damned if he has to wait to find out what happens to Olivia Pope because Reyes wants to watch two white guys fight over rusty shovels.)

He puts his hand on hers, pretending to pat it. Maybe he can slip the remote out of her grasp. “But don’t you want to watch Tiger Woods walk around for three hours?”

Raven rolls her eyes and pulls her hand away. “I’d rather watch _SVU_.”

“That’s a lie. No one would rather watch _SVU_.”

“Your hatred of _SVU_ is one of the things that holds this relationship up.”

“Damn straight,” he says, and high-fives her.

Raven flips back to _Bob the Builder_ and turns the volume up, its theme song cutting through Wick’s muttering. _Can we fix it?_ the narrator sings in some sort of extended monotone that would’ve made Rex Harrison proud. _Yes we can!_ comes the exuberant reply.

He blinks at her. “Are you s—? You’re serious.”

“He’s a _builder_ , Kyle. He is one of my _people_.”

“He’s a short little British dude with an alarmingly oval head. Seriously. It’s like…It’s like a _melon_ or something. I don’t know how he fits that thing in his hardhat.”

“Don’t make fun of the man’s head.”

“Sorry.” He settles into the pillow and doesn’t say anything until Bob pulls a wrench out of his toolbox. “Hey—is Bob using a line wrench?”

Raven squints. “He wouldn’t. A lug wrench would be…Oh my God. He's using a line wrench. He’s _using a line wrench_.”

“Sacrilege.”

“What’s he trying to do? Give us hemorrhages?”

“I think he’s just changing a tire.”

“Well he’s not doing it _right_.”

“What did I tell you? Melon head.”

She ignores him in favor of yelling at a cartoon man. “ _God_ , Bob, shut up and _fix_ the goddamn thing, will you? Guy never stops talking.”

Wick looks at her. She’s shrugged off his arm and sat up, eyes wide as she takes in the desecration of mechanics. She keeps shaking her head in disbelief, and he doesn’t interrupt her when she berates the poor man for using the wrong tool. He’s too busy laughing.

“Oh, _yes_ , _Bob_ , use a fucking pipe wrench. _That’ll_ do the goddamn trick.

“Did he just pick up an Allen wrench? He just picked up an Allen wrench.

“Fucking _Bob_.

“Jesus, they show this stuff to kids.

“Oh my _Gohhhd_ , _Bob_ , use your goddamn head.”

Wick snorts as Bob taps his chin and pretends to know what he’s doing. “I’m telling you, it’s the melon. It’s the melon.”

They’ve laid through at least seven episodes (who knew ten minute episodes could last so long), and Raven’s still as animated as she was when Bob pulled out a line wrench and all hell broke loose.

Wick’s fucking tired of that stupid theme song.

_Can we fix it?_

“Well gee, _Bob_ , I don’t _know_ if you can fix it because you’re always using the wrong goddamn wrench.”

_Yes we_ _can_ _!_

He almost feels a twinge of pity when Bob knocks over a table of scrap metal, sending the pieces crashing to the floor.

“Bob the builder my ass. Guy couldn’t build shit if it hit him in the face.”

“Hey,” he finally says, wrapping his arms around her. “Not that I don’t enjoy listening to you rip apart an innocent fictional builder, but…” He presses the remote and the TV screen goes dark. Raven taps his shoulder, her mouth open.

“Whoa, excuse me, what was that? I was watching it.”

“ _That_ ,” he says, his eyebrows raised to his hairline, “ _that_ was you bullying a children’s cartoon.”

“He _deserved it_. That tractor _easily_ could’ve been fixed with a socket wrench—even an _engineer_ could see that.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Your words offend me.”

“Bob the fake fucking _builder_ offends me!”

“Raven. Let the man live. Let him fix his tractors and wheelbarrows and whatever else he likes to do.” Wick props himself up on an elbow. “C’mon. Let’s have breakfast.” He checks his watch. “Never mind—lunch.”

She picks up the remote. “We were in the middle of an episode, I just want to see what hap—”

“No,” he says, and jumps up in front of the TV. “No. Don’t turn it on.”

She moves her head to see around him, a bit irritated. “Why not?”

“ _Handy Manny_ ’s on next.”


End file.
